The Book of Goodbyes (3 page)

When the call came for me to join Bitto

behind the damn Falls, did I not challenge

the appointment, did I not appeal to

the High Courts and wait in the dark offices

of tree holes and check the box to describe

myself as too birdbrained? Did I not

beg to stay in the Arbolis with you?

Yet you have not returned to me.

I know, I know I got beaked and fifed

Hesiod into your ear when all you

wanted to do was sleep and sometimes

all you wanted to do was pluck me

and that was, will always be, fine by me.

If I quote the Greats too much, know it's

because I'm afraid of you, yep, yep,

how you puff up your feathers, you know

how you do. I'm talking out loud again

to the can of Brahma, Sage of Seven

Ages, Father of Creation: No, I won't

shut up. I'm talking to Kate.

Also when you entreated me

to buy a machine, a machine to show us

what we look like when we're looking at

a machine, I suffered the wages,

the setup and download to find you,

wearing all your feathers, cheeping

with 36 other finches, none of whom

concern what I have to say here:

I am the original plagiarist.

Yet you have not returned to me.

Daily I withhold from one million

strangers, though they be willing.

I withhold the ability of my

cyber gender and this is a stupid

point I agree. No one wins for withholding.

What else can I say? I'm winging this.

At least when we were speaking in our

deplorable way that was something,

that was some smutcaw we had,

and seduced me you did in manners

unprecedented. If I sleep with

other finches, let us here reference

the words of the Apostle Paul: “I hate

what I do.” I don't hate you.

I don't even not like you. I've gone

over the branches and can't find you.

Today the gauchos arrived and they want

me to ride on the brim of their sombreros

to the ranch and maybe I will find me there

a finch who reminds me of you and you

will have returned to me.

Skype is on your Mac on the table

next to the Malbec and ashtray,

next to the book that cost 120 pesos,

b/c you had to have
Ulysses

in English. You're in some town

where your name doesn't exist

and they rename you, so you're

never sure who they're talking to.

The screen rings. It's Big Logos.

He downloaded the thing. First

a garbled voice comes from

the keys then, “Can you hear me?”

By the power of gods in Estonia,

makers of software, haters of fees,

the voice says your name and he's

not anyone, though anyone from

Terre Haute to Rome can Skype you,

he's someone you know or knew.

Which tense to use? Then his face

appears by the folders, the clock,

the Firefox, his face on his body

in his bed 8,000 miles away

and he says, “Give me a hug.”

You both grab hold of your machines.

You show your eyeballs to each other,

all impressed with yourselves,

as if your eyeballs have not always

been on your head. “Good to see you,”

he says. “Can you look in my eyes?”

You try but you're always looking off.

It's sad but it feels good like you love

reading
Ulysses
and you love being

alone near the Martial Mountains.

He plays a cover of Bruce Springsteen

by Lucero, and what a rad band.

This is the life. This is your friend,

your friend from way back, though

let's be honest, he was more

than that, and not to trouble you

with facts, he's still more than that.

You're so hot for technology.

This is better than IM. You can't

get enough of his pixels and it must,

please tell me, it
must
add up,

all those hours spent listening

to Lucero, who is okay but,

let's face it, not Springsteen,

and all those hours spent watching

Hulu together and now look at you,

staring at your screen, which is

not ringing, which will not ring.

It has always been just a screen.

You can't blame it for that.

If you're there, I will look at the door

to the motel room and I will be in

my violet dress because violet is one
n

away from violent like come in,

how was your trip, and if you're there,

I will spend the first ten minutes

ignoring you. I will play Philip Glass

and I will play Busta Rhymes.

It depends on what type of there

you are and what you're there for.

I will read Berryman poems to you,

only Berryman and “I'm hungry,”

you will say and you will keep

being hungry and there is no need

for you to be there to know that.

If you're there, you will have stopped

being you, because being there

in a motel room with me is something

you no longer do, not the you

I know and not the you

you know either and that's

the violence of the whole thing.

Joshua Tree, CA—A young professional, Jane Doe,

was raped and murdered at the Cactus Motel

off Twentynine Palms Highway Sunday morning.

Officers responded to the call, made from Room H,

Jane had tried the phone, found

the landline dead, flipped her cell, dialed 9-1-1

again and again, tried the front desk,

wanted to call Big Logos, to whom

she was a mistress, and knowing this was not

her weekend in Verona, and knowing it was

her duty to provide mischief not trouble,

liveliness not near-death, and knowing exactly

who would pick up the phone if she called him,

and knowing the voice on the other end

would say, “Yes? Who is it?” a question

Jane decided was not hers to answer, decidedly

none of her business, he would have to do it,

and so far he was doing it daily, making

arrangements in bars to take his dick out,

for his and her enjoyment, under the table,

until his dick became habit, and he said,

you make my dick happen
, which made her

feel like a creator of dick, and she loved it,

and she feared losing it, and made no demands

that he leave his girlfriend, and was unmoved

to tell her, he would have to do that,

it ails me
, he said, the ailment Jane attributed

to a mid-life crisis, it was easier to think this

than to ask what was really wrong with him,

or what was really wrong with her,

and so resigning him to his ailment in Verona,

she called instead a friend, a distant,

a friend who knew nothing, not the affair,

not the trip to Joshua Tree, a man by the name

of Clint who worked for Express Trucking,

data entry, third shift, Jane knew he would be

awake playing Guitar Hero, or masturbating

to the Girls Gone Wild DVD she'd encouraged

him to purchase, since when they last spoke,

the girls char-charred in the background,

on TV, and Clint loved them, which is when

she made her recommendation to purchase,

because what else did Clint have to live for?

Clint could do nothing for her.

What did she expect Clint to do for her

in Room H, an auspicious letter, the voiceless

glottal fricative,
had has him his her hers
,

letter of breath, of bare sound, of
hate humanity

and
hell
. She began making bets with God:

she would not encourage Clint to pornography,

she would stop romancing Big Logos,

she would go to church in the morning,

she would find a saint after service,

she would wear long dresses and call mom.

She couldn't call mom in a moment like this,

to tell her a man, possibly dangerous,

certainly deranged, was standing outside,

breathing heavily, banging hard with his fist,

and had no answer when she spoke to him.

“Yes? Who is it?” she asked, expecting
the owner,

the proprietor, the landlord, the hotel manager,

there's been a fire, an earthquake, a problem

with your credit card.
Then remembering

the man with dirty hands who all day walked

back and forth beside her window, from his room

beside hers to desert, from desert to his room

beside hers, she remembered thinking him

attractive, disheveled, t-shirt, khaki shorts,

she could pin him in a lineup, six two,

she remembered thinking of fucking him,

of what that would be, for he was a businessman

at a Fortune 500 company, drove an Audi,

wore sunglasses with a haircut, he had accounts

manageable, he was en route to Los Angeles,

on the red-eye, the kind of man who fucked

stewardesses in supply closets before selling

a pie chart to Tokyo, how far she got thinking,

earlier in the eve, and now hoping desperately,

scanning the room for defense, that it was not

this man, but that it was the owner of the motel,

and she expected some reply from the door,

since otherwise Jane knew no one in Joshua Tree,

had not been to any of the bars, clubs,

nor karaoke joints that the 911 operator

suggested she may have frequented,
are you sure

you didn't go out anywhere meet anyone?

and though she told the 911 operator:

“I am positive I met no one tonight I am

going to die please he is banging on the door”

the operator didn't believe her, kept insisting

are you sure are you absolutely sure
while she

screamed “WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?”

and thought of him passing her window,

thought of him casing the desert, thought

of how before, when before he was not

a threat
, she was going to say to his hands

how dirty
, he had been walking the desert,

she could see him, digging out the desert,

as he hassled the door knob, hurried past

the window, he was at the back door now,

she had people to tell she loved them,

she had things left to say, and the operator,
Miss

what are you doing staying out there alone?

The last time I saw Big Logos he was walking

to the Quantum Physics Store to buy magnets.

He told me his intentions. He was wearing

a jumpsuit with frayed cuffs. I thought the cuffs

got that way from him rubbing them against

his lips but he said they got that way

with age. We had two more blocks to walk.

“Once I do this, what are you going to do?”

he asked. “I wish you wouldn't do it,” I said.

Big Logos bought the magnets and a crane

delivered them to his house. After he built

the 900-megahertz superconductor, I couldn't go

to his house anymore because I have all kinds

of metal in my body. I think if you love someone,

you shouldn't do that, build something like that,

on purpose, right in front of them.

So what's up? Where are you these days?

Last I heard you worked at a bakery.

Last I read your poems were lower case

with capital content. I used to like

to read them in the dark. It's weird

you're not his girl anymore.

You were the picture in a snow globe

on his desk that I'd go to, shaking,

when he left the room. That room.

Do you remember it? The Dr. Seuss

sheets read: “This is not good.

This is not right. My feet stick out

of bed all night.” We tried not to talk

about you. When we had to do it,

I made him go to a dyke bar

so everyone would be on my side.

In my mind you were so good

at everything, like walking.

I asked him if you had two legs.

What was I thinking? Of course

you have two legs. I asked him,

I guess, so that the possibility

of me would exist. He said yes

as if he was ashamed to admit it.

Does it make you feel better

to know he cheated with a handicapped

girl? I wonder if you have

any handicapped friends.

I don't know why I'm using that word.

It demoralizes me. Or if you don't.

Or if you've seen somewhere,

maybe in the bakery, a woman

with a limp and felt sorry.

Once in the dyke bar he said

he was waiting for you to

stand on your own two feet

and it was hilarious to me,

though it was a serious conversation,

so I could not laugh.

We never talk about you now.

It's not allowed. We have to act all

that-never-happened.

I always liked you and thought

you were cool

and sometimes I pretend

you're in the room

and you forgive me and say

you always knew.